


Nothing Left Inside For You to See

by anodyneer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Claustrophobia, Community: hc_bingo, Concussions, Confusion, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Singing, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyneer/pseuds/anodyneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal wakes to find himself tied up and trapped in a very confined space with an injured Peter Burke. Just when it seems like the situation couldn't get any worse, it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left Inside For You to See

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the panic attack square on my [hc bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) card, using pipilj's prompt, "Peter and Neal are held someone. Neal discovers Peter is claustrophobic."
> 
> Title is from "The Last Time Around" by Rick Nelson.

The first thought to hit Neal Caffrey as he regained consciousness was that he could barely move. The second, that he was laying on his side in a very confined space. The third, that he was sharing that space with someone who was pressed up against him.

Neal remained still as he assessed the situation – and his own health. His head was throbbing; he thought he may have been hit with something, but the details refused to fall into place. His arms were bound behind him with what felt like baling twine around his wrists, and his ankles seemed to be similarly secured.

He was lying on his left side, and although he couldn’t see him in the darkness, he was sure the person whose chest was pressed to his was definitely Peter Burke. He could smell the man’s anti-perspirant, his body wash, the amalgam of other barely-there scents that would be ignored by most people, but which were immediately identifiable to someone who spent so much time around him.

Peter was alive; he could feel the man’s slow but steady respirations against his shoulder, could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Beyond that, he still had no idea of Peter’s condition…or his own.

Neal inhaled as deeply as he could, and outside of Peter’s scent, he picked out the pungent essence of evergreen – and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Forcing down the surge of panic that threatened, he flexed his shoulders back as far as he could, and his hands connected with something behind him. He ran his fingertips over the surface, then stretched out his legs until his toes hit a similarly-solid flatness. 

Knowing that he had to stay calm and think, Neal tried to piece together the clues he’d gathered so far. He realized that they were being held in some sort of wooden box, barely wide enough for the both of them. There was a knothole behind and above Peter’s head, but there was only a minimal amount of light coming through it.

As he shifted his hands, already working to loosen the rope binding his wrists, he felt Peter’s body flinch against him, and there was a loud, ragged gasp near his ear. The older man’s breathing quickened, but he remained still otherwise.

“Peter?” Neal’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and he swallowed and cleared his throat before repeating his partner’s name. The only reply he got was a rough groan. “Hey, Peter, talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Peter let out another deep groan, and Neal could feel him tensing as he tried unsuccessfully to move his arms and legs. “Neal?” There was a sharp intake of breath – a sound of pain – and a cold tendril of fear started to work its way into the pit of Neal’s stomach.

“Yeah, I’m here, Peter.” He managed to keep the worry out of his voice. “Where are you hurt?”

“I…what?” Peter’s head rocked slowly from side to side against Neal’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

“You’re hurt?”

The coldness in the pit of Neal’s stomach grew. He wasn’t sure if Peter’s confusion stemmed from being disoriented or if it was a symptom of something worse, but it worried him. “I’m okay. Got hit in the back of the head, I think, but it’s nothing serious. What about you?” There was no response, but Peter was still conscious, struggling against the ropes that held him, his shoulders and knees bumping into Neal’s body. “Peter?”

The other man stilled. “Neal?” There was a gasp and low moan, and Peter leaned his head into Neal’s shoulder.

Neal’s heart stuttered, and he fought hard to keep his next words steady. “Peter, I need you to listen to me. I’m here, I’m okay. I need to know where you’re hurt. Can you tell me?”

“My…head. Hurts.” He jerked against the bonds again, then slumped against Neal. “Neal? You okay?”

Neal took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes, struggling with the panic as it wrapped its icy fingers around his heart. A chill ran through him, and his muscles ached with the effort it took to keep himself from shaking. “Yeah, Peter, I’m fine.”

“Good. Okay, good.” Peter tensed again, fighting against the bonds, before finally stopping and exhaling hard. “Can’t…I can’t move. Neal? Can you move?”

“Working on it. We’re tied up, but my hands are almost loose. Hang tight for a minute.”

“Not goin’ anywhere,” Peter mumbled, sounding vaguely agitated.

Satisfied that Peter seemed to be getting more lucid the longer he was awake, Neal focused his concentration on getting out of the ropes. It would’ve been an easy task in more ideal conditions, but with barely any room to move, it was taking longer than he’d hoped. He tried to ignore the sting as the rough twine burned and pierced the skin at his wrists.

It wasn’t until he’d gotten one hand nearly free that Neal became aware of the change in Peter’s breathing. His chest was rising and falling rapidly against Neal’s, and his respirations had become alarmingly audible. He was trying to squirm, but his shoulder was already pressed against the top of the box, leaving him with even less room to move than Neal had.

“Peter?” Neal twisted his hand one last time and was almost shocked when it finally slipped free of the twine. “Peter, you still with me? Got my hands loose.” There was no response, but Peter once again seemed to struggle against his restraints. “Hey, just relax. I’ll untie you as soon as I can.” Neal shifted his weight just enough so that he could slip his right arm between his slim body and the top of the box; his left, still stuck underneath him and mostly numb, would take a lot more maneuvering – and more room than he had to work with – to get free. “Peter, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Hmm? Nothing.” Peter sucked in a deep breath, then suddenly kicked his heels back against the side of the box behind him. He gasped in pain and dropped his head forward, once again resting it on Neal’s shoulder, his panting breaths heating the skin under the younger man’s shirt.

“Take it easy. Just stay still.” Neal snaked his arm around Peter’s hip, searching for his bound hands. His fingertips brushed over the twine, and he started fumbling with the knot as soon as he found it. “Got it. I’ll have you loose soon.” The other man’s breathing and the rapid heartbeat against his chest still felt oddly out-of-place for someone as steady as Peter, and Neal had to force himself to sound nonchalant. “Peter, you hanging in there?”

“I’m fine,” Peter hissed through clenched teeth, his body tensing.

Neal knew it was a lie. As if Peter’s breathing and pulse weren’t enough of a giveaway, another clue had just started to make itself apparent, burrowing its way into Neal’s subconscious every time he inhaled.

He could smell Peter’s fear.

It wasn’t something that everyone would notice, but Neal had become familiar with it over the years, before his time with the FBI. The mixture of sweat, body heat, and something he could never quite place was a distinct scent, one that only emanated from someone’s pores when they were genuinely terrified.

The fact that it was now coming from Peter Burke was downright unnerving.

Peter had always been a rock, unfailing in his ability to remain calm even in the worst of circumstances. It was high up on the list of reasons Neal had so much respect for his handler. Peter was never reckless in his confidence, but he got through each of life’s challenges with a quiet and intelligent courage that had always impressed Neal.

And now, pressed up against him in a dark wooden box, Peter was falling apart.

Neal took a deep breath and once again forced himself to keep his voice steady, soothing. “Take it easy, Peter. I’m working on –”

“I said I’m fine.” Peter kicked his heels against the box again, then let out a long sigh of frustration. “Just…need…” His voice broke, and another shiver ran up Neal’s spine.

“Talk to me, Peter,” Neal murmured. “What do you need?” His fingers slipped off the rope, and he swore under his breath as he felt his way back up to the half-loosened knot. Peter didn’t answer his question, but the other man’s breathing had taken on a tone of desperation.

“Please.”

Neal’s fingers stuttered to a stop, his blood running cold at the single half-sobbed word that cut through the air next to his ear. For a second, he could’ve sworn that it didn’t come from Peter, but from a child. The voice wasn’t dissimilar to Peter’s own, but it was wrong. It was broken.

“Peter?” Neal’s own voice – the apprehension in it – startled him. It startled Peter as well, but only because he didn’t seem to be expecting it. He jumped, and his body started to tremble against Neal’s.

“Neal? You’re here.” Peter seemed to consider this for a moment, his ragged breaths now thick with emotion. “Neal, I – I can’t get out. We need to get out of here.”

“I know. I’m working on getting –”

“Neal, listen!” Peter cut him off, his voice frantic and rising in pitch. “You don’t understand. I need to get out. I can’t – I can’t get out and I need to get out.” He kicked back against the side of the box repeatedly with his bound feet, emphasizing each kick with a word hissed through clenched teeth. “I. Can’t. Do. This.”

Neal’s stomach flip-flopped, and he had to breathe through a sudden wave of nausea. He didn’t know if Peter’s behavior was the result of his head injury or something entirely different, but it scared him badly. They’d been in intense situations before, they’d been held hostage, and he was positive that Peter wasn’t claustrophobic. His mind tried to distract him with grim scenarios about Peter’s health, but he refused to let it. 

Sighing, Neal shook his head and tried to ignore his own pain, his own dread. Peter’s kicking had dislodged his fingers from the knot, and he decided to concentrate on that, hoping that freeing Peter’s hands would help calm both of them. The task was more complicated because he could only use one hand, but at least he was making progress.

“Peter, I need you to stay still. I’m going to get you out of that rope. Just give me a minute.”

“No, Neal, listen. Listen, I can’t.” Peter sounded perilously close to tears, his voice low and thick, the words pouring from his mouth in a chilling litany. “Neal, I need to get out. Now. I need to get out now. I can’t. This…I need help.” He buried his face in the side of Neal’s neck, and Neal could feel Peter’s tears, burning his skin like a brand. Though his next words were muffled, they still had the same effect. “Neal, I need help. I – please. Neal, _please_.”

Neal’s heart broke at Peter’s agonized pleas, and he only barely managed to choke out a few words of comfort. “Shh, Peter. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Stay with me, okay?” Though he almost had the bindings untied, his fingers kept slipping on what must be either his blood or Peter’s. He tried not to think about it and focused on getting the last part of the knot undone. By the time it actually slipped free, Peter was whimpering against his neck, and his trembling had turned into a disconcerting case of the shakes.

He hurried to untangle Peter’s hands from the rope, then grasped Peter’s left hand and carefully squeezed their arms through the narrow space between Peter’s side and the top of the box. He brought Peter’s hand up between them and placed it flat against his chest. The older man was surprisingly pliant, and the unsettled feeling in Neal’s stomach grew.

“Peter, I need you to do something for me. Do you think you can?”

Several seconds ticked by without a response. Just as Neal started to wonder if Peter had lost consciousness again, there was a moan against his neck, followed by a simple reply in the same shattered voice as before.

“No.”

“You asked me to help you, remember? I’m trying to help you. I need you to slow down your breathing.” He pressed his hand firmly against Peter’s and forced himself to take strong, steady breaths. “Do you feel that? Can you breathe with me?”

The only reply was the chattering of Peter’s teeth and the hitching gasps that weren’t even close to matching Neal’s pace. Neal was used to both of them being able to stay in control even in what seemed like a hopeless situation, but Peter’s condition and behavior had left him rattled, and he struggled to keep his composure.

“Please, Peter,” he whispered, wrapping his fingers around Peter’s even as he kept the heel of the other man’s hand pressed against his chest. They stayed that way for what seemed like several minutes, but Peter’s breathing didn’t change. He was still hyperventilating against Neal’s neck and chest, which were both now damp and hot. Peter, too, was overheated, his hair and shirt soaked with sweat, though he was still shivering.

As he continued to pace his breathing in hopes that Peter would follow his lead, Neal’s mind sorted through their situation, trying to make some sense of it. He’d been so thrown off by Peter’s condition that he hadn’t given a second thought to how they were going to get out of their current predicament.

Since they were undercover, his tracking anklet had been removed, but he’d been wearing the watch. His left arm was too numb for him to tell if it was still there, and he thought it may have fallen off in the chaos. He assumed they’d been knocked out before being wedged into the box, but he couldn’t remember enough to be sure, and he had no idea if they were even in the same warehouse or if they’d been moved.

He could only hope the FBI knew where they were and would be there soon to get them out. Peter’s repeated kicking at the side of the box hadn’t done any damage, and they were too tightly wedged for Neal to even think about finding a way to dismantle it from the inside. All he knew was that they needed help – _Peter_ needed help – and fast.

“Neal?”

Neal jumped at the sound of Peter’s voice. The other man’s breathing had slowed, but only slightly, and he continued to gulp the stale air in the box like he couldn’t get enough of it. “Yeah, Peter?”

“I’m scared.”

The simple confession made Neal’s chest ache, and he gripped Peter’s hand even tighter. He tried to inject some confidence into his voice, hoping Peter would believe it in his impaired state. “Don’t be. Hey, it’s us, Peter. We always get out of these situations, right?” He realized that he was now trying to convince not just Peter, but himself. “Pretty soon, Diana and Jones will be here to get us out. We just need to hang on until they get here and clear the building, okay?” When there was no response, Neal gave Peter’s fingers another squeeze. “Peter? How are you feeling?”

“Mmm. Bad.” Peter let out a long, shaky sigh, muffled by the damp fabric of Neal’s shirt. He’d at least stopped crying, but he still sounded uncharacteristically timid. “My head hurts, I feel sick. I want to go home. Neal, _please_. When can we go home?”

The last bits of Neal’s resolve crumbled into the darkest corner of the box in which they were trapped, and his chin started to tremble. “Soon, Peter,” he whispered. “Soon.” He wanted to tack on an _I promise_ but just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Years into their relationship, and he still couldn’t lie to Peter outright.

Fighting back tears of his own, he shifted to give Peter more room to breathe, but the other man moaned miserably against him.

“Don’t. I’m – I really don’t feel so good.” Peter swallowed thickly, and Neal cringed.

“You feel sick to your stomach?”

“Very.” 

_Concussion_. Neal almost broke down then, as the severity of Peter’s condition drove itself into his heart like a stake. His own gut developed a sympathetic ache that he tried to ignore, and he guiltily forced away the twinge of revulsion at the thought of how much more uncomfortable their situation would become if Peter vomited on them in such close quarters.

A thought suddenly occurred to him – a trick Mozzie had taught him in the early days of their partnership – and he slid his fingers down to Peter’s wrist. He felt for the two tendons, then pressed his fingers firmly between them, hoping to help Peter’s nausea by stimulating the acupressure point there.

“Feel that? Acupressure – it’ll help with the nausea.” Though he had no idea if it would actually work or not, he hoped that explaining it to Peter would at least have a psychosomatic effect.

Peter said nothing but nodded against his chest, taking shallow breaths through his nose as he tried to work his way through the queasiness. They stayed that way for several minutes, Peter fighting for control and Neal doing whatever he could to help. When Peter finally seemed to be through the worst of the nausea, Neal slid his fingers over to check the older man’s pulse. Though it was still racing, his pulse was strong, and Neal allowed himself a moment to relax. It didn’t last long.

“I think I’m dying.”

The statement knocked the breath out of Neal, and he suddenly found himself fighting his own bout of nausea. “Wait, what?” he managed, trying to keep the terror out of his voice. “No. Peter, no, you’re not dying. Why would you say that?”

“Can’t feel. My arm. My feet.”

Neal closed his eyes and sighed in relief, leaning his head against Peter’s. “They’re numb. They’re just numb, Peter. I can’t feel mine either.” He could almost hear Peter’s injured brain trying to puzzle through this in the darkness.

“Really?”

“Really. I’m sure. You think it feels bad now, just wait until we get out and the circulation comes back.” Again, instead of the banter Neal was used to, there was a long silence as Peter tried to decipher what he’d said.

“Neal?”

“Hmm?”

There was a sniffle against Neal’s chest. “They don’t know we’re in here.”

“Of course they do. The watch –”

“They won’t be back for hours.” Peter was in tears again, his fingers clutching at Neal’s shirt.

Neal frowned, no longer sure he and Peter were having the same conversation. “Who, Peter?”

“Mom and Dad.”

Neal’s heart sank, and the burning in his chest was almost more than he could take. Part of him, deep down, just wanted to let go and break down with Peter. His partner was injured, sick, panicking – and now apparently losing touch with reality. They were trapped and could barely move, and the only thing Neal could do about it was wait for someone to rescue them. He felt helpless.

Peter’s soft crying turned into sobs, deep and plaintive. Neal worked his hand around to cradle the back of Peter’s head, and his fingers met with a tacky resistance. It took his brain a few seconds to make the connection, but when it did, he gagged and struggled to force back the bile that rose in his throat. Peter’s hair was matted with blood, both drying and fresh, and in an amount that couldn’t possibly be good.

“God, Peter,” he whispered, moving his hand down to base of Peter’s neck. It, too, was slick with blood, but he left his hand there, rubbing at the tense muscles with his thumb. “Shh, it’s okay. They’ll be here soon. Shh.”

As Neal tried to think of ways to help Peter deal with their situation until help arrived, his mind drifted back to a time in his life when he himself was gripped by fear and panic. For years, his mother had struggled with something that was beyond his comprehension at the time, even for a boy as intelligent as Neal – _Danny_.

All he’d understood was that there were days when his mother disappeared, replaced by someone with wild, suspicious eyes who ranted and screamed and sometimes threw things at him. She didn’t seem to recognize him, except for the times when she swore at him and called him names he didn’t understand.

Neal had always somehow managed to find a way to get around her, darting to his room and taking refuge as far back under the bed as he could get. He’d curl in on himself, sobbing and shaking, until Ellen came to get him. Somehow, she’d always known – _just like Peter_ – when he needed help, and she’d show up like his own personal savior.

After talking his mother down, getting her to take her medication and lay down on the couch, Ellen would coax Neal out of his hiding place. They’d sit in the middle of the floor, and she would rock him in her arms and sing to him. She’d had a beautiful singing voice, the kind that made Neal forget all of the awful things his mother had said and done. He’d concentrate on the melody and the lyrics, and they’d take him far away from the pain and fear until he could barely remember why he’d felt that way in the first place.

Ellen would sing what she knew, mostly old country songs – Patsy Cline, Marty Robbins, Loretta Lynn – and Neal lost count of the days when the words of her favorites brought him out of the darkness. As an adult, he rarely listened to the artists whose songs Ellen sang to him back then; they took him to places he no longer wanted to deal with.

Now, as he lay in darkness once again, this time with a scared and injured Peter Burke practically trying to melt into him and hide, Neal fell back on those memories, remembering how Ellen’s singing soothed him. It was both beautiful and intimate, and it made him feel not only cherished, but safe.

He sifted through his mental list of the songs he knew, hoping to stumble upon something that might pacify Peter. The older man’s started shivering against him again, and his sobs morphed into a low and steady keening sound that ripped through Neal’s heart. Almost without realizing he was doing it, he launched into the first comforting song that came to mind, his voice soft next to Peter’s face.

“ _When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be._ ”

Peter had grown silent by the end of the first line, and by the time Neal made it through the second, he realized that his friend almost seemed to be holding his breath. Worried that not breathing after hyperventilating for so long would cause Peter to pass out, Neal slid his hand down to Peter’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Breathe, Peter.”

Peter’s quavering reply was spoken so softly that Neal almost didn’t catch it. “Don’t stop. _Please_.”

Neal swallowed hard and managed to continue singing, his hand going back to stroke the base of Peter’s neck, concentrating on the lyrics so he didn’t have to think about the sticky wetness of Peter’s blood under his thumb.

He made it all the way to the last verse before he heard the faint shouts.

_FBI! Drop your weapons!_

Even as he heard the muffled banging of doors being broken down, rooms being cleared, and their names – his and Peter’s – being called, Neal kept singing. He lowered his voice even more, so that only Peter could hear him. If he had his way, only the two of them would ever know about it.

The sounds of the ordered chaos got closer until, finally, they were right next door. Only then did Neal stop singing, protectively slipping his arm as far around Peter’s shoulders as it would go.

“They’re here, Peter,” he said in a fierce whisper, not even knowing for sure whether he was being heard. Peter had gone silent during the singing, and his breathing had evened out to the point that Neal thought he’d likely lost consciousness. “It’s over. They’re here. Just hang on.”

\-------------

“Come on in, Neal.” Elizabeth ushered Neal into the house and closed the door behind him, then pulled him into a grateful hug before leading him to the kitchen. “I’m glad you made it.”

Neal leaned on the island, watching as Elizabeth poured him a glass of orange juice and tried to pretend everything was normal. “How is he today?”

She sighed and gave him a half-shrug. “He’s…Peter. He’s tired and in pain and refusing to admit it. He’s trying to be tough, but he’s still going to need at least another week off, whether he likes it or not.”

Neal allowed a small smile, though the news that Peter was still struggling made him feel vaguely ill. He was used to Peter being nearly invincible, quick to recover from anything. The fact that this ordeal had left Peter so debilitated was unsettling – almost as unsettling as hearing the doctor use the term ‘mild traumatic brain injury’ to describe Peter’s condition.

Peter had spent two days in the hospital and had been home for another three, but the two of them hadn’t had a chance to talk about what happened that day. Neal, recovering from a mild concussion of his own, had gone back to work the day after Peter was discharged. Though Jones was taking it easy on him, he’d still had to make a statement and help wrap up the investigation into the case that had gotten them imprisoned in the first place.

Neal had stopped to visit Peter each day, but he’d tactfully avoided mentioning what happened while they were trapped in what turned out to be a reinforced shipping crate. Between his head injury and the medications, Peter had been too out of sorts to carry on more than a short casual conversation anyway.

Neal glanced away, and when he spoke again, his voice was much softer. “Does he remember anything yet?”

“I think he does now. He had a nightmare last night.” She paused, waiting until Neal looked back up before going on. “Peter never has nightmares. I could tell it bothered him. He was fine the rest of the night, but he’s been really anxious to talk to you today.”

“Yeah, I got here as soon as I could.” In truth, Neal had already planned on spending at least part of the day with the Burkes. It was Saturday, and since he had the day free, he’d hoped to not only talk with Peter but help with anything around the house that Peter wasn’t yet up to doing.

“He’s out back.” She reached over to squeeze Neal’s hand. “Thank you.”

Neal nodded, not sure what else to say, and took his glass of juice out to the deck. In spite of the fact that it was a mild early fall day, Peter was wearing sweats and slippers, and a wool watch cap was pulled down low on his head, covering the shaved spots and stitches in the back. His sweatshirt, Neal noted with amusement, was emblazoned with Navy Midshipmen Baseball. Peter’s hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of something dark, but Neal didn’t smell coffee.

“Hey,” he said as he sat down in the chair closest to Peter, putting his glass on the table beside him.

“Hey, yourself.” Peter looked up at him and gave him a weary but reassuring smile. “Thanks for coming over.”

Neal shrugged and returned the smile. “I was planning to stop by anyway.” He gestured to the front of Peter’s sweatshirt. “Gift from Jones?”

“Yeah.” Peter’s smile widened. “It’s really warm, too. I can’t believe how cold I’ve been all week. The doctor said it’s a side effect of the head injury, and it’ll go away soon, but I get to freeze my ass off in the meantime. I’d be inside, but I had to get some fresh air.” He took a sip of the liquid in the mug, then closed his eyes briefly and inhaled some of the steam.

“Okay, I don’t smell coffee. What is that?”

“Herbal tea. Orange spice something or other. It’s not bad.” Peter smirked at him, and Neal couldn’t help chuckling.

“Not allowed to have caffeine?”

Peter let out an exasperated groan and rolled his eyes. “No caffeine, no alcohol. Most of what I normally drink is off-limits until I recover.” He pointed at Neal’s glass. “There’s a reason El didn’t give you coffee.”

“Decaf?”

“Never. I’d rather drink the tea.”

Neal nodded and took a sip of juice. “So, aside from being cold and going through withdrawal, are you feeling any better?”

“I am today, yeah. I was pretty wiped out for the past few days, but I actually felt a little more human when I woke up this morning.”

“Good, good.” Neal glanced away, tired of the small talk but not sure how to bring up what was sure to be a difficult subject. A silence fell between them, and Peter looked down, seemingly fascinated with the contents of his mug. When he finally cleared his throat to speak, it almost startled Neal.

“So, you…gave your statement?” Neal knew why he was asking; Peter was terrified that if the bureau learned what really happened to him in that box, they’d demote him – or worse.

“I did.” Neal looked up to find Peter’s apprehensive eyes searching his face. “I told the truth – that we were trapped and couldn’t get out, and that you were badly injured and semi-conscious. I had a hard time remembering very much of it because of my own concussion, and they were very understanding. They’ll still want to get your statement, but it’s just a formality, from what Jones said.”

By the time Neal finished speaking, there were tears starting to form in Peter’s eyes. He blinked them away quickly and gave Neal a grateful smile. “Thank you.” 

Neal shrugged, still feigning innocence. “Hey, if you can fill in any of the details for them, go ahead. I wrote down what I remember.”

“But not _all_ you remember.”

“There may have been a few things that slipped my mind.” He took a sip of his juice, a mischievous grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? My head still hurt, I was exhausted, and…I was never good with essay questions anyway.” When Peter looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, Neal’s mood sobered. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?”

Peter nodded slowly. He put his mug on the table and ran his hands nervously over his thighs. “I still don’t remember everything, but I remember more now than what I did when I got out of the hospital. I’m not sure how much is real.” His eyes came up to meet Neal’s. “What you did in there, Neal…thank you. I mean that.”

Neal nodded an acknowledgement but said nothing at first. He’d done exactly what Peter would have done for him had the roles been reversed – tried to keep him calm and safe until help arrived. When he realized that Peter was still watching him, he gave him a sheepish smile. “Sure, Peter. You’ve got my back, I’ve got yours, right?”

“Always.” Peter managed to return the smile, but it disappeared quickly. He rubbed at his temple below the edge of his cap, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, laced with tension. “Look, Neal, there’s something you should know about what happened to me in there.”

“Okay.” Neal tried to sound nonchalant, but he was beyond curious about what Peter was going to tell him. Though he’d assumed most of Peter’s behavior was a result of his brain injury, he couldn’t help feeling that there was more to the story. 

Peter took a deep breath and put his hands on top of the table, gathering himself before he spoke. “With the concussion, my head…I wasn’t in a very good place. I started having some sort of flashback, I guess, and I freaked out.” He paused to take a sip of his tea, and Neal noticed the mug shaking in his hands.

“When I was eight, I spent a lot of time hanging out with my cousin, Marty. Rode my bike down to my aunt and uncle’s place a couple times a week during the summer. He was three years older than me and a hell of a shortstop for his age, and I really looked up to him.” 

Peter sighed and shook his head, his eyes losing focus as he traveled back in time on the wings of his memories.

“We came up with this idea that we’d throw the baseball back and forth over the roof of Uncle Thad’s old barn. It was fun, too…until Marty put the ball through one of the little ventilation windows up near the top. We went inside to take a look, and it was a mess – glass everywhere, and no chance that Uncle Thad would miss it.

“Marty knew his dad would give him a good whipping and make him work to buy a new window, so he begged me to take the blame for it. He figured since I was younger and wasn’t their kid, they wouldn’t be as mad. I was pretty scared, though, and I refused. So then he threatened to beat me up, and when that didn’t work, he followed through. He punched me in the nose and the stomach, and then pushed me back into this old wooden storage bin. Slammed the lid shut and stuck a nail through the hasp so I couldn’t open it.”

Peter frowned and closed his eyes, then ran a trembling hand slowly down over his face. Neal watched him closely, concerned but also fascinated by the story. Peter hadn’t often spoken of his childhood, but when he had, he’d made it sound wonderful, idyllic – enviable to someone like Neal, whose own broken childhood was best left forgotten.

When Peter didn’t continue, Neal tentatively reached across the table and covered Peter’s hand with his own. Peter flinched at the contact but then seemed to relax, though his expression remained somber.

“When I didn’t show up for dinner, Dad went over to find out where I was. He and Uncle Thad confronted Marty, and I guess he got scared and confessed. I’d been in there six or seven hours by that point.”

A pained look crossed Peter’s face, and though he still seemed composed, his hand continued to shake under Neal’s. Neal wrapped his fingers around Peter’s and gave them a reassuring squeeze. Peter looked back up at him, and Neal was taken aback by the torment haunting his gaze.

“When he first locked me in, I – I tried to sit up and hit my head on the top of the box. It hurt like hell, and there was blood running down into my eyes. I started crying and tried to yell for help, but there was a lot of dust and debris in there. I inhaled enough of it that I started choking, and I panicked. I tried to pry the lid open, tried to kick my way out. Nothing worked, and I couldn’t breathe, and I remember thinking…” He trailed off and shivered, hunching his shoulders against the sudden chill that ran through his body.

“I remember thinking that no one would find me and I’d die in there.”

There were tears welling up in Peter’s brown eyes, but his voice was surprisingly steady. “When they found me, I was almost catatonic, and my lips were blue because I was having such a hard time breathing. The tips of my fingers were raw from trying to claw my way out. I got pneumonitis from whatever I’d inhaled, and they kept me in the hospital for almost a week.”

Peter managed to blink away most of the tears, but one of them made its way slowly down his cheek, and a lump formed in Neal’s throat as he watched it. He squeezed Peter’s hand again, and this time, Peter lifted his hand far enough to squeeze back.

“You know, kids are pretty resilient,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes meeting Neal’s. “I got over it eventually, but I stopped hanging out with Marty. We didn’t speak for years, and even now, I’m not really in contact with him. I think that with time, I forgave him. But I couldn’t forget.” He shrugged and managed an embarrassed half-smile. “So now you know. With the head injury and the small space, not being able to get out, the wood smell…it brought all of that back, I guess.”

Though Peter seemed to be waiting for a response, Neal said nothing at first, trying to wrap his mind around what he’d heard. It did explain Peter’s erratic behavior when they were trapped in the box, as well as why he’d never shown any signs of claustrophobia or panic attacks in the time they’d known each other. 

“So it’s never happened before?”

“Never.” 

Neal took a long drink of his juice, watching Peter over the top of the glass. “Do you think it’ll happen again?”

“It’s pretty unlikely.” Peter seemed to finally realize that his hand was still wrapped in Neal’s, and he pulled it back slowly. “So. When I give my statement…”

Neal gave him an ambiguous shrug. “Well, memory lapses _are_ a common symptom of your injury.”

“There are some parts I’d rather not relive anyway.” His cheeks pinked, and he looked uneasy. “In the ambulance, did I really…”

Neal knew what he was getting at. “Twice. All over yourself the first time. They gave you a basin after that.” He gave Peter a look that was genuinely sympathetic. He’d only witnessed the whole thing because after they were rescued, Peter clung to him like a lifeline, and the EMTs were forced to transport them together. 

“Christ. No wonder they got rid of my clothes.” He shook off the disgust, and his brow furrowed. “The singing. I didn’t imagine that either, did I?” The blush deepened, dark against his otherwise pale face. When he continued, his voice was a near-whisper. “I thought it was an angel at first.”

Neal’s own cheeks heated, and he studied the tabletop, rubbing at it with his thumb. “Not even close,” he mumbled. He could feel Peter’s eyes boring into him, and he forced himself to look back up, eager to change the subject. “So, when do you think you’ll be back?”

Peter blinked and shifted uncomfortably, and Neal regretted being so blunt. It was obviously a sore spot with Peter, who wasn’t used to being so helpless – or sidelined for so long. Both Elizabeth and his doctors were adamant that he wasn’t even allowed to look at case files for at least the first week, and from what El had said when he’d arrived, it was clear that Peter wasn’t going to be back at the office anytime soon.

“Listen, Peter, I shouldn’t –”

“No, no.” Peter squared his shoulders and plastered on a half-hearted smile. “Honestly, I just…I don’t know, Neal. I hoped to be back by next week, but this thing really knocked me on my ass. I can’t concentrate. Can’t stay awake for more than a few hours. Yesterday, I had to stop and rest halfway up the stairs – and then I couldn’t remember if I’d been on my way up or down.” He pushed his cap up and ran a hand across his forehead. “Another week here, I think, and then they’ll want me to desk jockey until I go through evaluations and get a release from the doctor. I’m sorry, Neal. God, I hate this.”

Neal leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. “Hey, take all the time you need. Jones is actually trying not to be too hard on me.”

“Don’t get used to it. All I have to do is call him…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Neal waved off the threat and grinned, downing the rest of his juice. The fact that Peter was starting to engage in banter for the first time since their ordeal was reassuring, but he also noticed the yawn Peter tried to stifle and the way he was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Had enough fresh air yet?”

“Mmm.” Peter let out a resigned sigh. “Yeah. I should go lie down for a while. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Nodding, Neal stood and held out a hand to Peter, who accepted it with a grateful smile. He hauled the older man up slowly, knowing that he was still having occasional dizzy spells – ones to which he’d never admit, because he was Peter.

Once he was up, Peter draped an arm over Neal’s shoulder and leaned on him as they made their way into the house. Neal put their cups on the kitchen island on the way by, then quickly got Peter settled on the sofa. Peter mumbled his thanks and gave Neal’s hand a reassuring squeeze before he nodded off.

\-------------

That night, Neal sat on the sofa in his apartment, staring idly at the bed across the room. He’d spent most of the day with the Burkes, helping around the house, hanging out with Peter, and giving Elizabeth a bit of a break. Though Peter was still weak and tired easily, he’d been much more like himself after his nap and a light lunch. He’d taken another short nap before dinner, and after they ate, he actually managed to make it through the crossword. It took him twice as long, but he was still able to do it in ink, and he was proud of himself in a way that Neal found endearing.

Neal had been almost reluctant to go home, if only for the fact that he was faced with going to bed. Peter wasn’t the only one who’d been having trouble sleeping. Neal, too, had been abruptly awakened by a flood of returning memories.

The meeting with their suspects, the Bowles brothers. Thinking everything had gone smoothly only to turn and see the younger brother swinging something long and gray – a crowbar – at the back of Peter’s head. A second swing when Peter didn’t go down after the first one. Nearly vomiting because he was sure Peter must be dead. A sharp crack to the back of his own head as he lunged for his friend. Pain and darkness. Hot tears on his neck, blood under his fingers.

_I’m scared. I think I’m dying._

On a whim, he leaned forward and opened the laptop on the coffee table in front of him. His eyes scanned the extensive contents of his music folder until he found the particular song he thought might help.

As the familiar piano melody started to play, he sat back and closed his eyes, a faint smile drifting across his lips as McCartney’s mellow vocals cut through the air. He sat there, still and silent, through the entire song. By the time the final notes faded, he knew what he had to do next.

He composed a quick email – just three words – and attached the song to it, then hit send. Grabbing his phone from the table, he sent a text message to Peter.

 _If you have trouble sleeping, check your email_.

With a satisfied sigh, he closed the laptop, then took the phone with him as he went to bed.

For the first time in a week, Neal slept so soundly that he missed the ping from his phone, alerting him to a text message. He discovered it the next morning and noted with surprise that it was received at 2:47 am. The message was from Peter, just two words.

 _Thank you_.

It wasn’t until a three days later that Peter actually mentioned the song to him, saying he’d listened to it every night before going to sleep and was no longer having nightmares. By the time he returned to work, he’d stopped using the song as a sleep aid and, much to Elizabeth’s relief, was back to his normal sleeping habits.

It took four days of following the musical ritual before Neal himself was able to sleep through the night without waking to the echoes of Peter’s sobs in his head. Then, like the songs Ellen sang to him when he was a child, he put it out of his life and seldom listened to it voluntarily again.

Still, on the rare occasion that he found himself – 

_…in times of trouble…._

– plagued by a sleepless night, or any time he was worried about Peter Burke, he’d sit back, close his eyes, and listen to the song. Then, quite simply, he’d take its advice.

\---


End file.
